End of History
by ChaosCat
Summary: AU. What if Ascension II didn’t end so happily ever after? Xavier is dead, but is his dream? A glimpse of a world without the X-Men - with Apocalypse standing a step away from victory. Featuring: Rogue, Scott, Kitty, Remy & (many)others.
1. I Prologue

What if Ascension II didn't end so happily ever after?  Every victory has its cost, even a hollow victory.  What if Apocalypse wasn't defeated so easily? That is the premise this new series of short fics taking place in an AU future that I have attempted to piece together. 

_Expect romance, drama, action, and maybe even a little comedy.  Yes, there will be pairings, although even I don't know how it's all going to end at this point.  I do as my muse tells me, and that muse isn't particularly helpful at times._

_If you even think you –might- enjoy this, I urge you to read Judgment Day by Scribbler, which is one of the **best** AU fics that I've read which is similar in theme to this series.  It's one of the inspirations as well, I must admit.  However, they are not the same premise at all.  At least, I hope they aren't._

Most of regular cannon characters are here, even if mentioned briefly.  However the main focus of this particular episode is on Rogue, Kitty, and Scott.  This isn't to say there aren't other characters featured, just that these are my main three.  If you have character requests to be added in, do let me know.

1 / 6 

End of History:  Alpha

ChaosCat

At the dawn of the millennium, Apocalypse rose.  Banding together, the X-Men and their allies launched one last ragged attempt to save mankind from destruction.  They were able to push him back.  But not destroy him completely.  The final battle was not without repercussions, however.  

The world has moved on.  Their mentors gone, the young mutants have no choice but to carry on best they can.  And Apocalypse is rising again.  Allies have fallen.  Allegiances have changed.  Yet the remnants of resistance remain.  But will it be enough?

**The Past.**

_2007:  Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico._

            The gleaming monolith was visible for miles, towering ominously over the gaping wasteland.  The blackened earth had once been lush foliage.  It had once been beautiful.  That had been before the missiles had been launched.  Before the war had begun.  Before the world had gone straight to hell.

            The war had begun and long ago it had been established that the lines between good and evil were blurred.  Magneto had been the first to fall, but he had not been the last.  The issue was no longer humans against mutants.  No longer good against evil.  Those distinctions had been lost.  There would be only those who served Apocalypse.  And those destroyed by him.

            Now all that remained was the hot sun and choking, heavy dust.  Now the ancient pyramid stood as a symbol to all who would dare look upon it.  A symbol that Apocalypse had risen, once more to rule.  Many had tried to gain entry to the fortress beyond the translucent protective dome that shrouded the structure.  And none had succeeded and survived to speak of what lay beyond.

            The pyramid, once sacred to the Feather Serpent God had once been a place of worship for the Mayan people who inhabited the peninsula near the turn of the millennium.  The plaster pyramid base still carried vestiges of the motifs common to that people.  Jaguars, eagles, and of course, the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl.

            Now, it was little more than a stronghold.  The ebony gleaming pyramid settled atop it was not of Mayan construction.  Nor was it anything the world had previously been aware of, until Apocalypse had awoken the first time, making it the first in his triad of bases.

            The other sites had been practically demolished in the aftermath of the first battle.  Vestiges of the pyramid in China remained, badly damaged by the lightning storm that had been the death throes of an African Goddess.  Of the Sphinx, the site of the initial defeat of Apocalypse, there was very little.

            This one had survived, however.  It had been the place that Apocalypse had secretly retreated to after his defeat.  He'd been hurled through time and dimension, only to claw his way back to the present.  So he waited in the dark, slowly amassing a horde of followers with painstaking carefulness until the time came when he was ready to emerge once more to the world.

            Now that he had, the world was crumbling. 

            With America as it was, thrown into chaos and disorder, it would be only a matter of time before he could take it all.  It needed up a nudge from him before the resisting remnants would be toppled.  Last time he had been careless, as was his nature.  He was, after all, immortal.  Nothing could defeat him permanently.  This time, he would not fail.

            If any had been watching, they would have seen the dome crackle, energy roiling beneath the surface as it pulsated with increasing rapidity.  They might have been amazed with the electricity in the air, static and wild.  But there was no one there.  No innocents had crossed the desolation in ages.  So as the dome split, there were none around to stand in awe of it.

            Had they been there, it was unlikely that they would have lived long.

            The first horse burst through the gap in the dome; the coral-colored monstrosity of pure energy bearing a lone rider upon its back.  It was only a moment later that the other two followed it, streaking across the sky in a brilliant display of light and power.

            The fourth figure that rose from the dome had no such vehicle.  Perhaps the most impressive of the four, this figure rose unto the air with his own power, gliding across the sky like a bird of prey.  

            Like the plagues of biblical times, the four swept across the desolate landscape.  Their goal was apparent from all who would see them, and remembered by those who survived.  They were vengeance.  They were an omen of what was to come.

            The Horsemen had been reborn.  And the war had begun in earnest.

The Past 

_2008:  Alaska_

All around her, the flames leapt higher.

The building was going to collapse soon, she realized.  And there was nothing she could do about it.  She couldn't even wipe the blood from her split lip.  Her limbs wouldn't respond to her commands.  So she lay there, watching the flames creep closer to her prone form through glazed eyes.  Smoke clouded her lungs, forcing a series of wracking coughs through her slender frame.

_You're going to die._

Shut up.

_Into ashes.  Nothing but ashes left of you._

Stop it.

_Poor little girl.  Nothing to save you now._

"Shut up!"  The words came out as little more than a gasping cough.

But it was enough to silence that voice.  At least for a little while.  The others were silent now.  She would have thought that odd, if she'd bothered to think of it.  They never left her alone anyone.  Each one vying for attention; to beg, accuse, threaten.  Once more, she tried to move, knowing it was futile.

The roof of this building, it had once been a school, had collapsed when she'd been hurtled through it.  She was still lying where she'd fallen.  The fire had started soon after.  She wasn't entirely certain how.  Must have happened during the battle, before she'd fallen out of the sky.  Much of the debris from her landing was still lying on top of her, pinning her lower boy against the floor.  Under other circumstances, she could have moved the massive chunks of rubble without breaking a sweat.

            But she was so tired.

            Her left arm was numb.  She could scarcely feel the tips of her fingers.  The wicked twelve-inch barbed adamantium blade lodged in her shoulder was undoubtedly the cause.  She'd tried to pull it out, only to receive sliced fingers from the sharp metal.  Blood still oozed from the wound, dripping down her arm.  The tendon was probably damaged, she thought depreciatively, maybe beyond repair.

            The blood loss was beginning to affect her now.  Even that was not her major concern.  The feather-like blade was not only wicked but poisoned as well.  She could feel it seeping through her system, slowly deadening her limbs.  The toxin was fire through her veins, burning steadily towards her heart.  

            She coughed weakly, her eyes tearing from the smoke.  If she didn't move, she was going to die.

            _No less than you deserve._

            There was a part of her that believed that voice.  It was the part of her willing to give up.  She was so tired now.  All she wanted was to sleep.  If she slept, the pain would go away.  If she slept, the voices would go away.  Maybe forever.

            But they were coming for her.  She had to move.  She couldn't lie down and die now.  Not yet.  Not while he still existed in this world or in any other.  She had brought the menace upon the world, even if it had been unintentional.  She would destroy him or die trying.  She couldn't die now.  She had to move.

            Why wouldn't her body respond?  The fire was closer now.  She couldn't let herself die like this.  How long had she lain here?  Only minutes.  Perhaps less.  It couldn't be more.  It only seemed much longer.  They would find her soon, unless she moved.

            _Face it Rogue.  You are too weak._

            Shut up.

            _You've always been too weak._

            The voice was cruel, cold, and truthful.  Always truthful.  She was very nearly accustomed to that voice.  While she could lock many of the others away, that one remained.  A reminder of her failure.  Her inability to control herself.  It never went away.  Sometimes there were others.  She had absorbed countless people over the years; many of their memories were still flitting around her head, their voices intermingling.  Sometimes Kitty spoke, her optimism unending.  Or Scott.  Even Kurt, filled with cheerful German anecdotes.  But one voice never left.

            And that was all her fault.

            Those people were no longer her family.  She'd given up her place among them.  Now she had no home.  No family.  An outcast among outcasts.  It was no less than she deserved.

            She heard it then, the whoosh of air that marked a descent into the room through the gaping hole above her.  Her right hand, wet and sticky from blood, twitched.  Yet she could not quite rouse herself from the tranquil lull that had overtaken her.  The poison was quicker than she had thought.

            Rogue watched through pain-dulled eyes as the angel of death descended upon her, metal wings gleaming in the firelight.

            Then her world went black.

The Past 

_2008:  Bayville, New York._

            Professor Charles Xavier had been a man of deep insight and a vision.  His vision had been one of a world where those individuals possessing the X-Gene could live without fear of discrimination.  Where they could exist within the rest of mankind in peace.  Xavier's dream died with him four years ago.

            His memorial still stood behind the mansion, although it was no longer well kept since the place had been deserted.  Tall weeds had grown up around it, making the walk difficult.  For some reason, the weeds irked the visitor, and he yanked a handful of them up from the ground as he passed, tossing them aside.  He strode purposefully toward the marble tombstone, standing before it with a sort of reverence.

            "Hello, Professor."  His voice trembled only slightly, fingers tracing the lettering upon the stone. 

            For a moment, he stood in silence, gazing wearily upon the tombstone.  He didn't have the words.  And even if he had them, they didn't need to be said.  Charles Xavier had been everything to him.  Friend, mentor, and most importantly, the closest thing to a father he could remember.  And that man was dead.  Had been dead for years now.  It didn't make the loss any less painful.

            He'd watched the life ebb away from his mentor even as he stood helpless to do anything but watch.   In the moments before his defeat at the hands of the very girl who had awoken him, Apocalypse had withdrawn the power he had previous vested into his Horsemen in order to attack.  He had withdrawn too much.  Apocalypse had killed his henchmen moments before his own initial defeat.  Charles Xavier had been one of those unwilling Horsemen.  

            "Sorry I've been away so long."

He had once shared Xavier's vision of the world.  A vision that had been shattered when En Sabah Nur had awoken, destroying everything Xavier had held dear.  Including the X-Men.  The mansion had been abandoned.  The team was scattered, those of them that had survived anyway.  Most were in hiding.  Few had suffered worse fates.

"It was rough for a while."

            Many had not been so fortunate.  She had not been so fortunate.  The hand at his side clenched, fingers digging into his palm sharply.  The pain brought him a moment of focus, taking his mind from painful thoughts of Her.  There were some wounds that never healed.  But he was too strong to let such a thing overtake him indefinitely.  He'd allowed his pain to dominate him for too long now.  The world had moved on.  So must he.

            "And I had some thing to take care of."

            Apocalypse might have thought him a broken man, but that was not the case.  He'd stood by for too long now, lost in his own grief.  He'd exiled himself from the world.  And the world had suffered for it.  Too many had made sacrifices for him to quit this far along.  That realization had been taken too long.  But now was not the time for regrets.  It was the time for action.

            "But I'm home now."

            The rule of En Sabah Nur was going to come to an end.  He would see to that.  It might take his death to ensure the final victory, but it would happen.  The first step had already been made.

            "And Apocalypse will fall."

            The determination in those words, spoken to a man long dead, was unshakable.  Scott Summers, the X-Man who had once been known as Cyclops, would not rest until the world was free.  He was through running.  It was time to fight.

------

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	2. II Problems

**The Past.  Ascension  **

_2003:  The Sphinx, Egypt_

They staggered out of the rubble, choking and gagging on the hot dust swirling around them, dumbing their senses and leaving them even more weakened.  The steady beating of helicopter blades above signaled the presence of SHIELD, ever watchful as it was.

The Sphinx was gone.  Apocalypse had seen to that.  He'd nearly brought it down around their ears before Rogue had managed to seal him away.  They'd been lucky, as they'd barely made it out before the entire thing had collapsed.  As it was, they'd won.

Hadn't they?

As the rumble settled, the helicopter set down, blades still whirling.  A lone man stepped out, marked distinctly by the patch over his eye.  He alone waited the approaching victors, although he had no way of knowing what this victory had cost them.

Wolverine was the first to clear the dust, his face grim.  He was not alone, however, as he supported a smaller figure, her two-toned hair damp with grime and sweat.  Rogue limped along, her face drawn in pain as she put weight on her hurt leg. Slightly behind them came a disheveled youth, Cyclops.  His uniform was torn, and he seemed exhausted, but he was otherwise uninjured.  He looked up as they approached the chopper, his expression unreadable beneath the visor.  The last of the group came into sight then, his blue fur bedraggled and matted in places.  But it was not the young teleporter that drew Fury's attention.  Instead, it was the sad bundle in his arms.  Red hair and blue skin was visible from the distance.  He trudged along desolately, clinging to the prone form of the woman in his arms.  His mother.  He could tell from the grief stricken expression upon the young man's face.  Mystique was dead.

The X-Men had defeated Apocalypse.  They had saved the world.

But they had lost a good deal in the process.  The Horsemen were dead.  And Apocalypse had escaped.

–

2/6

End of History: Alpha

ChaosCat

–

**The Present.**

_2009: Bayville, Westchester County, New York._

            As the opponent lunged at her, Katherine Pryde sidestepped, responding to the attack with a sweeping kick.  It was blocked, forcing her to retreat a step once more to regain her balance.  Scowling, the slender young woman narrowed her eyes.  Her back against the cold brick wall, she was quickly running out of options.  The shattered cityscape was deserted, leaving only yawning shadows and dark corners.  Neither of which were any use to her at the moment.  She was fighting this battle on her own.

            Instead of retreating from the approaching assailant, Pryde rushed forward, blocking a punch that might have knocked her over had it been landed, and retaliating with one of her own.  Executing a clean leg sweep, she knocked her opponent clear off his feet, the surprise evident in his eyes.  He hit the ground hard.

            But she wasn't done yet.  The slight of her sprawled adversary brought forth a crashing surge of rage she could not quell.  With a wordless cry, she lashed out, her booted foot connecting with the side of his head.

            And again she kicked him, the dull thunk as her foot struck home beating out an unconscious rhythm.  It was only a matter of time before he was no longer moving.  It was only then, when she was sure he was dead, that she stopped, panting softly from the exertion.

            She almost didn't hear the sound of another approaching behind her until it was too late.  In truth, she turned just as the pike came whistling down.  Her intangibility saved her from injury in this instance and the pike sailed harmlessly through her weightless form to strike the shattered asphalt at her feet.  Kitty reacted instantly, adjusting the density of her body accordingly to execute a flawless roundhouse kick, which unbalanced her armed attacker.  He stumbled back, hitting the remnants of the wall that could have once been part of a residential complex.  The pike fell to the ground.

            Even though he wasn't speaking, she could hear his voice.

            _Hey pretty Kitty.  How you doing?_

            It was infuriating, hearing those words.  Once a sign of affection, that was true no longer.  How dare he say that to her!  How dare he call her that!  Confident of victory and filled with fury, Kitty strode forward, her gaze fixed upon the opponent before her.

            The attacker caught his balance and surged forward, lashing out.  Kitty blocked the attacks, phasing through those that she couldn't.  She scored a few hits of her own in there, yet nothing enough to cripple her opponent, at least not yet.

            "Terminate Session."

            With those words spoken, the world around her melted.  The shattered city streets and crumbling buildings merging into smooth, gleaming metal.  The flesh and blood opponents were not replaced with robotic counterparts, faceless inhuman objects.  Stripped of their holographic cloaking, the androids were nothing more than expensive toys.  One of those expensive toys was lying broken at her feet.

            Kitty paused, panting lightly from the exertion of the fight.  Slowly the rage drained from her, leaving her empty.  And anxious.  Refusing to look at the sparking remains of the android she'd destroyed, half afraid she'd still see his face there, she turned around.

            Why had the simulation stopped?  A few yard away in the cavernous metal room, she caught a glimpse of her supposed partner for this exercise, twirling his bo staff idly.  Largely ignoring him, Kitty turned her gaze toward the mirrored glass of the control room, scowling.

            "What's going on?"

            "_Je ne sais pas_."

            Kitty didn't bother turning to look at her grinning comrade.  The slender Arcadian was no doubt leaning against his staff, looking cocky and suave, as only he seemed to be able to pull off so well.  She'd gotten used to his charm long ago, although even she had to admit that he was undeniably attractive when he wanted to be.  That would be most of the time there was a female present.  He was Gambit, it was to be expected.

            "Cyclops?"  Her voice conveyed most of the annoyance she was feeling.

            "Session's over." The static-filled voice came over the Danger Room intercom.  His stiff tone of voice did not invite argument.

            "What?"

            "We'll reconvene this afternoon at 1400 hours."

            Kitty scowled.  Their leader never cut a session short.  Not after all the lectures about the importance of survival training.  Not after making them get up at 5 AM every morning to train.  They'd only been in the Danger Room for twenty minutes and now he was calling it off?  Something was up.

            However, when she tried to hail their fearless leader in the control room again, there was no response.  Frowning, Kitty turned toward the exit.  He didn't want to talk to her?  Fine.  Behind her, she heard her companion chuckle before following her.

            "Somebody be in a bad mood today, _oui_?"

            "Shut up, Gambit."

            He slung an arm around her shoulder in a comradely fashion, smirking suggestively all the while.  It was an expression she had grown accustomed to.

            "Maybe I can cheer you up then?"

            "You think you're that lucky?."  Kitty smiled slightly, the tension slowly draining out of her.

            "Gambit?  _P'tite_, Lady Luck's got a soft spot for this Cajun.  How else you think I ended up here?"

***

Scott Summers sat in the control tower of the training facility known as the Danger Room.  He drummed his fingers against an empty space in the control panel; looking over the read-outs the computer was showing him.  He'd been watching the training session carefully as the two had been going through the exercise.

This had been one that Kitty had set up herself, and Scott cursed himself for not looking it over before letting her run it.  Shadowcat had almost lost herself out there; he'd seen it before.  She'd been stressed lately, not that he blamed her.  They'd all been stressed lately, with the rumors of new Sentinel factories and Apocalypse's cult popping up everywhere.  Scott let out a heavy sigh, glancing once again at the computer screen.  The holographic imaging was in excellent form; the robots had looked most realistic.  Perhaps, he mused, they were doing too well, as he knew that was the source of Kitty's wrath. 

Scott tapped a few keys at the control panel, causing the image she'd chosen to mask the robots to come up on the screen.  His frown deepened, lines creasing his brow from the expression.  It made him look much older than his 25 years.  They'd all aged, hadn't they?  Grown and matured.  Some quicker than others.  Some far too quickly.  

Kitty had chosen this program specifically this morning.  It didn't sit well with Scott, yet he knew she had needed to do it.  To prove to herself that she could eliminate Him if she had to.  To prove she was capable of it.  They knew the answer to that now, didn't they?  Shadowcat had torn apart those two drones without hesitating.  Scott wasn't entirely sure whether that was a good thing of a bad thing.  Image on the screen sneered back at him.  It was an expression Scott knew well from this particular man.  He'd seen in plenty during their years at Bayville High together, usually accompanied by that contempt-filled uttering of his name.  No, he had never gotten along with this particular mutant, but that didn't mean he was particularly pleased about his fate.

Alone in the control booth, Scott Summers leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.  His expression was often hard to read, due largely to the ruby-lens visor his mutation forced him to wear.  He viewed this as an advantage most of the time, as it prevented his enemy from reading his expression to anticipate his moves.  Now, however, with his lips twisted into that deep frown, it was obvious what he was thinking about.

The X-Men.

True, Cyclops led them.  And he did so alone.  He had for nearly a year now, since they had first re-formed.  It wasn't an easy task.  Nor was it one that he had ever asked for, or even wanted.  Yet he went on, because sometimes you had no choice.  You did what you had to do.   Scott was a born leader, and he would do as he felt he must.  No, it definitely wasn't easy.

Especially with the team as it was.  They were a splintered group.  Sometimes, Scott felt as if he were holding them together through sheer force of will.  But he did it.  He had to.  Scott owed it to the Professor.  To Her.   To keep them together through this.  Keep them alive.

Life hadn't been easy for the X-Men after Xavier had died.  First they had been hailed as heroes.  But that didn't last.  None of them really expected it to.  They had all hoped that would be the case, waiting for the dam to break with fingers crossed.

It had broken all right.

The Mutant Registration Act had been passed three years ago, largely due to the help of one Senator Kelly.  Kelly's platform had been simple.  Mutants were dangerous.  Just look at Apocalypse, for example.  Did people really want something like that to happen again?  Of course not.  Protect the children, Kelly proclaimed.  Pass the MRA.  You won't regret it.  

Magneto had been right, even if he'd never lived to see it.

It was then that the true horror began.  The government had begun testing for the X-Factor gene.  It could be revealed with nothing more than a simple blood test whether an individual was a mutant or not.  When a mutant was discovered, that poor individual was sent off to one of the internment camps.  "For his or her own good" the good Senator would have them believe.  What was left unsaid, however, was that they never returned.

When the dreaded En Sabah Nur had re-emerged, the fears of humanity were realized.  Of course, it was the MRA that caused so many ostracized and outcast mutants to join his side.  He offered them what the wanted – Freedom.  Power.  All that came at a price, however.  Once you went to the dark Citadel, you never left.  Apocalypse owned you completely.

Cyclops and his X-Men faced a battle on two fronts:  one against the humans that hated and feared them and the other against the Apocalypse, who wanted to topple the existing government for a totalitarian one of his own.  The ancient mutant had already crippled several military installations over the last two years.  Many wondered where he'd strike next.

Officially, the X-Men had disbanded nearly three years ago, when Cyclops had left them the first time.  He'd been too wrapped in his own sorrow and mourning to see what was in front of him.  Now, the X-Men remained underground, only striking when they could do so without being discovered.  The risk was too great.  Apocalypse would crush them if he could.

Between a rock and a hard place.

An apt analogy for where they now stood.  Damned if either side won, from the look of things but unable to do much about it.  It was a place that Scott knew well from his times with the X-Men.  Things were never easy.

As if to illustrate his point, something lit up on the control board, the flashing red light was accompanied by an insistent beeping noise.  He turned toward it, frowning again.  He knew what that meant.  There was a communications transmission coming in downstairs.  And for that, there would be only one source.

Two days ago, a small team had been dispatched on a surveillance operation to confirm or deny the rumor of a Sentinel factory somewhere in Nevada.  They weren't due back for another two days at least.  The blinking light meant something, somewhere had gone wrong.

With a muffled curse, Scott Summers rose from his chair, hurrying toward the source of the problem.

-

_2009: Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico._

The gathered followers fell silent as the chamber doors swung open, revealing the feared figure within.  Apocalypse stood in the threshold, basking in the reverence of his elite.  The inner circle stood waiting.

            The gaunt figure upon the dais was not as impressive as he had once been.  The handful of years since his initial defeat at the hands of mere children had taken their toll upon him.  Wrinkles lined his previously smooth skin; his bones were brittle.  Yet he had survived, gathered followers, and again rebuilt his legacy.  This time there seemed little in his way.  The X-Men had been scattered.  They no longer existed and few had even defected.

            Still En Sabah Nur was not yet at full strength.  Without his chamber of life, The Lazarus Mechanism, he could not rejuvenate himself beyond the frail, shriveled form he now wore.  It would not be that way forever.  Once the Lazarus Mechanism was completed, the Chamber of Life would be functional once more.  He would be able to finally be done with this frail shape in favor of something stronger.

            She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

            Apocalypse held out an arm and immediately Rogue moved to his side.  Like a well-trained puppy, she obediently took his arm.  Once again, she was startled by just how small he really was.  How light his limb was.  She had the sudden notion that it might crumble if she exerted too much pressure upon it.  Appearances were deceiving.  Apocalypse might have been physically frail, yet his mutant abilities still surpassed any of those gathered here by far.  Once his body was replenished, he would be night unstoppable.

            Until then, the old mutant entity in existence was nothing more than a delicate antique.  His power reserves were dangerously low, even now.  The creation and maintaining of the Horsemen was a rough task.  However, he had managed well enough over the last two years since their creation, especially with the help of none other than Rogue – his human battery.  She felt those cold fingers against her bare arm, even now siphoning some of her strength away.  It was not nearly enough to cause her any physical discomfort, only to sustain him for a time.

            She was bound to him, just as she had been the one to awaken him.

            En Sabah Nur stood upon the dais above the assembled of his Elite Hounds, looking down upon them as an indulgent father might watch his children.  The alien quality in his gaze unnerved her.  She was grateful not to have to look at him as they did.  No, instead she stood by his side, didn't she?  The very picture of perfect obedience and utter devotion to a master who had given her what she thought she had most desired.

            The ability to touch.

            Even now, she stood beside him in a risqué outfit that bared not only her arms, but also a good deal of her stomach as well.  The need for gloves was a thing of the past.

            And in the process, he owned her soul.

            She was bound to him as he was to her.  After all, it has been Rogue who had awakened him; just as it had been she who had stopped him in that first battle.  By using the powers of the Leech boy, she had been able to nullify his powers long enough for his plan to fail.  Unfortunately, it had not been enough to stop him completely.  Now, she worked for him.  Whether she wished it so or not.

            "It is time."  His words ignited a movement among the crowd gathered.  Breath held in anticipation was released as the Great Apocalypse spoke.  Though there were no whispered voices for this speech.  Such a thing would have untold consequences of the worst sort.  

"The war is coming, and soon our final victory will be just beyond the horizon.  Soon, my Chamber of Life shall be finished and with the might of his Horsemen, Apocalypse will show this world what it means to be afraid."

Horsemen.

The speech went on, igniting the almost religious fervor of the crowd, but Rogue latched onto that single word.  The Horsemen weren't among the crowd gathered.  Apocalypse never was without the four warriors he had created – twisting their minds and bodies to suit is own purposes.  Rogue suppressed a shudder, her features carefully schooled to reveal nothing to the watching crowd.  She'd like to think no one saw her, after spending so many years in the background.  But that was not the case here.  Eyes upon her from the Elite gathered, just waiting for her to screw up.  They hated her.  Loathed her for what she was.  What she had been.  Almost as much as she hated herself.

But that wasn't her primary concern.  The Horsemen were gone.  The meaning of their absence was clear.  Apocalypse's War against Humanity was not coming.  It had already begun.

-

_2009:  Bayville, Westchester County, New York_

            Kitty stood at the top of the hill, gazing down at the horribly neat little rows, each tidy and well kept.  The breeze played with her short brown hair, ruffling it gently.  Her scalp tingled from the sensation.  Closing her eyes, Kitty left out a long sigh, then began making her way down the hill.

            Each gray tombstone was unique from the others, if even just slightly.  Their purpose not to mark yet another casualty of the struggle: but to mark the loss of a fallen friend.  The craved names screamed at her in silent crescendo, each bringing forth a memory.

            She walked among the dead, reaching out to brush trembling fingers along the roughly hewn surfaces as the names passed.

            _Ororo Munroe._

_            Fred Dukes._

_            Jubiliation Lee._

            The names continued.  As the small cemetery had grown over the years from the original memorial to Charles Xavier it had begun as.  Kitty had paid a visit to each and every grave that stood in this place upon multiple occasions.  But there was one that she had never failed to see on her visits.

            She knew the path instinctively, the way burned into her memory over the last months she had walked it.  Weaving her way through the lovingly crafted stones, her goal was in sight.  She came to a halt before it, reading the name emblazoned there.

            _Piotr Rasputin._

            He'd been her lover once, just after he'd joined them.  But he'd been much more than that.  Piotr had been her best friend when things had gone to hell.  They'd been through so much together.  After Cyclops left, the X-Men hadn't been able to go on; they'd been a team without a leader, each on their own.  Yet Piotr had remained at her side.

            Now he was gone.

            Even a man of steel had weaknesses to be exploited.  

            The sudden breeze blew her bangs from her face.  It was the only announcement of his presence.  One moment she was alone and the next he stood beside her.  Kitty didn't bother to look at him, her gaze firmly upon the stone.   They acknowledged one another's existence perfectly without it.

            Neither of them spoke for a time, but in the end it was he who broke the silence.

            "You still mourn him?"  There was no malice in the quickly spoken question.

            "Do you still mourn your sister?"  she responded in the same tone.

            "Wanda," he breathed the name with almost palpable sorrow.  "Always."

            She nodded once, catching the fierce dedication in the utterance of that word.  Despite their differences, Pietro Maximoff loved his sister, the often-tempestuous Scarlet Witch.  After the death of Magneto, the two siblings had needed each other more than ever.  They say a person never fully recovered from losing their twin.  Like losing half of your soul.  Kitty could believe that, considering her observations of Quicksilver.

            "Todd mourns her too."  He went on.  "Although he'd never tell me."

            "No, he wouldn't," Kitty replied, musing momentarily about Todd Tolansky.

            It was no secret that he'd loved Wanda, and after her death by the Hounds of Apocalypse, he'd been utterly devastated.  Yet he had stayed at the mansion.  Toad had slowly become one of them, as had Pietro.  A stray thought brought a ghost of a smile to her lips.  Quicksilver was one of the X-Geeks, as he had always called them when they'd all been younger.  Not all of the Brotherhood had shared the same 'fortune.'  She sobered quickly as her thoughts grew darker.  With maturity had come sacrifice.

            Kitty looked up at him, studying his features.  Pietro had changed drastically from their youth.  His hair was the same silvery white, his light eyes still flashed with an arrogance born in him.  It was no surprise, considering his heritage.  He had grown taller, and should have looked gawky, considering his lean runner's build.  But he wore the look well.  She still found him handsome in that cold, detached way that had made him irresistible in high school, even despite the scar marring his cheek.  It slashed from the ridge of his brow to the edge of his jaw.  He'd been lucky not to lose that eye.

            She'd been there when they'd found him.  God, there had been so much blood, they'd all been afraid he wouldn't make it, wounded as he was.  Three broken ribs, broken nose, and a shattered kneecap.  Not to mention the deliberate scarring of his face.  That was just the physical damage.  Kitty suspected his wounds went far deeper than that, although he never spoke of it, no matter how much they'd begged him not to keep it all inside.  All courtesy of random acts of violence against mutants.  It sickened Kitty to think about.

            Pietro still walked with a limp at times; so she knew his leg pained him.  Yet he never complained.  He was too proud to do such a thing.  It just wasn't in his nature.

            Catching her look, Pietro gave her a lazy grin and a wink.  It was such a Pietro thing to do that Kitty couldn't help but smile.  He was still proud and could be unbendingly stubborn at times.  Some of his arrogance was gone though.  Oh, he knew he was attractive and was quick to point out that little fact at any opportunity that presented itself.  But he'd lost his cruelty somewhere along the way.

            He turned back to Piotr's graze, brow furrowing in though.  Kitty left him be, her own gaze returning to the stone as well.

            "We all mourn something we've lost," she murmured softly.

            Pietro gave her a curious look, but only nodded in response, his face solemn.  Somehow, his hand found hers.  Their fingers intertwined, they each mourned their loss, and each were grateful for the company of the other.

-

            They were still standing there when the call from Cyclops reached them, demanding they return to the mansion immediately.  They both heard the urgency in his tone and knew that this was not a drill. Something had happened.  And whatever it was, it did not bode well for the X-Men.

---

Chapter Three:  The Identity of the Horsemen reveled.  Any theories on their identities?  The whereabouts of the Wolverine's X-Men.  And, of course, more questions.  Why is Rogue with Apocalypse?  Why is the Brotherhood with the X-Men?  And who do you want to see in later chapters???

---

Thank you all for the reviews!  They mean so much to me!

Pyro Tsunami -- Hey, you got it!  The next story arc will feature Ray (among other, more blue and fuzzy X-Men), I do believe.  

Romy Luver – Hey, anything can happen in this universe.  Kurt will get his own story arc in the near future.  He has his own problems to worry about.  As for the others – well, hopefully you weren't too disappointed?

DemonRogue13 – Don't worry, the BOM will be featured in this series.  Just as soon as I have time to tie them all in!

Rogue151 – This is definitely more of a AOA thing.  Glad you liked the Rogue / Danvers scenes.  It was especially fun to write.  Don't worry, there will be plenty of Rogue later in the series!  Good guess with the Jean situation!

IMpuLsIvE ThouGhTS --  Don't worry.  You will see them!

Alwaysright1 – You are a girl after my own heart, you know!  I do believe you will be getting what you want. . but shhhh. . .can't make promises for my muse just yet!

_On a side note:  Yes, I am still working on the 12th chapter of _**Had A Bad Day Again**_.  I have not abandoned the fic, but instead, am having trouble with the beginning of the chapter.  I am immensely dissatisfied with it, but hope to have something presentable for you folks to read soon!_


	3. III Prisoner

The Present 

_2009: In Route to Nevada, 7850 ft above sea level_

            The interior of the jet was silent as the team departed.  St. John fiddled absently with one the many lighters he carried with him, his customary backpack flamethrower resting on his legs.  Next to him, Remy shuffled a deck of playing cards, flipping them deftly in his fingers with skill that any magician would envy.  In the front cabin next to her, Scott flew the jet, his demeanor solemn and composed as always.  Kitty's gaze swept over them all before coming to rest upon Pietro.  The silvery haired man was gazing out the window, his expression blank.  

Kitty knew how hard it was for the speedy mutant to keep still for extended periods of time; it was part of his mutation.  Along with the high metabolism came a slight case of ADHD, which meant his activity level was extraordinarily high.  Pietro needed to be in constant motion.  She could see the way his fingers twitched, fidgeting this way and that.  It was one of the few outward signs of his discomfort; but more than enough to give him away to someone who knew him.  She had to fight the urge to fidget herself, chewing nervously upon her bottom lip.  They'd only been airborne for about an hour, but it seemed much longer.  

The air was thick with the brooding silence.  None of them knew what they were flying into exactly.  Cyclops had gathered them together hurriedly, telling them only what he knew of the situation at hand. 

The worst had happened.  Now the X-Men flew to rescue one of their own.  Or bury them.

**3/?  
End of History  
ChaosCat  
April 30, 2004**

_2009: Nevada.  Three Hours Ago_.

            The man stalking across the stark, black desert had gone by a plethora of names in his long life.  Many of those names he might never remember – cursed forever to live only with half-truths and nameless figments of his faulty memories.  He had been many men – some of them decent, some unspeakable.  Perhaps his amnesia was a blessing in that respect.  Be that as it may, the only name he knew now was Logan.  Was that his real name?  Or one he had been given?  Had he even given it to himself?

            He might never know the answers to those questions.  And sometimes he wondered if he even cared anymore.  The world had moved on.  The one man who could have helped him was gone.  He was, and forever would be, the Wolverine.  And right now, he was furious.

            Forge was missing.

            The younger man was supposed to return nearly an hour ago, before the sun had fully set.  Now, long after dark had fallen, they still had heard nothing from him.  So Wolverine had gone out to hunt.

            This was supposed to have been their last night camping in the desert.  Cyke had sent them out nearly a week ago, looking into a lead on a Sentinel manufacturing compound.  It was there already, settled snugly in one of the desert valleys.

            Bastards, Wolverine thought viciously.  The President preaches peace from the midst of a fighting Senate and then says nothing while militant groups stockpile giant robots of mass destruction.  Wolverine couldn't blame the government.  Not really.  Apocalypse was still out there.  And he was still scheming.  The giant mutant hunting Sentinels weren't technically legal, as they were still in the midst of attempting peace talks with Apocalypse's mutant representatives.  This bit of information had leaked out to the press, leaving people somewhat leery of what the future would bring.  But Logan knew it was only a matter of time before war broke out.  That was why the X-Men were there, even if the rest of the world didn't know it.  

They had only been sent here to set up surveillance around the area.  A few of Forge's smaller gadgets would have done the trick.  The devices were wired to set up a perimeter around the facilities, allowing the X-Men to monitor what came in and what came out.

            Wolverine gave a cautious sniff of the air.  Forge's scent was still fresh.  The man had passed this way several hours ago.  That was not out of the ordinary.  However, the fact that he had not returned was.  Following his trail, Wolverine trekked across the desert under the cover of darkness.  The cold night air had little effect upon the stocky man.  He'd long since become immune to all but the most extreme weather conditions.  

            Abruptly, he paused, tasting the acute scents of the air.

            Blood thrummed through his veins as the adrenaline began to flow.   The hair on the back of his neck rose.  His knuckles itched fiercely, begging for release of the blades within.

            A low growl rising in his throat, Logan tapped the communicator at his belt.

            "Kid, you read me?"

            "Gotcha ya loud and clear, Badger."  The female voice on the other end was chipper, and largely unconcerned.  "What's goin' down?"

            "I need you to patch me through to Slim, kid."  His tone was sharp, warning the voice on the other end that this was not the time to be cute.  "We've got a problem."

****************

_2009: Nevada.  Desert. The Present._

To watch the Blackbird land was truly an impressive sight.  The aircraft was a feat or modern technology.  This was due mostly in part to the large advances in technology made possibly only by one man.  The mutant known was Forge.  His extraordinary abilities allowed him to build any machine he could imagine.  This mastery of machinery showed in this particular project.  However, due to that same amazing technology, few people had ever set eyes upon the craft, let alone seen it up close.  The sleek ebony vessel was fitted with enough stealth technology it could have landed on the lawn of the White House and never appeared on any scanner known to man.  Impressive to say the least.

Yet the two figures watching the descending craft were not as enthused.  They'd seen the show before.  The first, her shortly cropped blonde hair ruffling in the breeze generated from the landing, did little more than stare at it boredly, as she watched most things in life.  Tabitha Smith had made it her life's work to be standoffish.  For the most part, she'd succeeded.  Only her status as an X-man suggested that perhaps life wasn't all fun and games, although she'd never admit that to any of her teammates.  

The other – much shorter than herself and hunched in a position that didn't seem humanly possible (to mention nothing of comfort) – didn't seem to be paying much attention to it at all.  Todd Tolensky, known as the Toad to most, had once been a member of the Brotherhood.  Now he was an X-Man, although the alliance was often a shaky one.  

As the ramp lowered and the team stepped out, the two walked forward to meet them.

As always, Cyclops was in the lead.  The two X-Men glanced at each other, sharing a look.  Their leader was not pleased.  The darkness did little to hide the harsh lines on his face as he frowned deeply at them.  They had expected as much.  Wordlessly, they shouldered their packs.  The campsite had been dismantled already, leaving no sign of their presence in the dirt.

"Where's Logan?"

"Right here, Slim."  The wild man could have been lost in the darkness if not for the cherry glow from the tip of his cigar.  Wolverine was in a confrontational mood and all gathered knew it.  Unspoken tension remained thick between the two men.  It had since Wolverine had returned to the team.  Returning without the girl he'd left with.

"What's the status?"  Cyclops inquired immediately.

"Not good," Logan began, falling into step beside the young man as the two began the walk back to the Blackbird.

The others watched them confer, helping Tabitha and Todd with the remaining gear to be stowed aboard the jet.  A few moments later, Kitty joined them in the cockpit of the jet, making her own inquiries.

Despite the differences between the two men, they worked well together.  Scott was tactful, studious, and solid.  Logan often let his temper rule him.  What Scott lacked in experience, Logan more than adequately compensated for with his extensive military training and knowledge of field maneuvers.  Kitty was their computer junkie.  She and Forge were responsible for most of the equipment and software the X-Men used.

Tabitha settled herself into one of the seats in the back, next to Todd, who was looking studiously at his toes.  The two of them didn't have to speak to one another; the company was enough.  They were both the relatively newest members of the team, and thus, often found themselves paired together on 'safe' assignments.  She didn't even really mind his smell anymore.  Well, most of the time, anyway.  Unable to keep still, she fumbled with her sunglasses.  While useless at night, she kept them with her uniform anyway.

"So, what's the story, doll?"  Plopping down next to her, Pyro made the inquiry, his tone implying boredom.

Tabby looked over at him, lips turning up into a smirk.  She rather liked St. John Alleryce.  He was incorrigible, as Kitty said often enough, and a good deal of fun.

"Forge's gone," she said.  "He never came back from setting up his little surveillance machine-thing."

"Did he get lost?" St. John leaned back in his seat, arms behind his head.  Tabitha gave a wry smile

"It's not funny."

They both turned to look at Todd.  The smaller man was hunched over, scraggly brown hair concealing his face.  He often took that position, attempting to make himself as small as possible.  Leaving him unnoticed.

"Suppose not, mate."  John scratched his head thoughtfully, red-blonde hair spiked every which way from the move.  "Any leads yet?"

"Wolverine thinks the somebody from the factory grabbed him," Tabby answered with a shrug.

"Factory?"

"The Sentinel makers."

"Oh.  What the piss was he doing out there by himself?"

"Playing with his machines," Tabby answered.

"He could be dead."

"Todd."  Tabby sighed, rolling her eyes.  "Stop it."

 "He's not dead."  John shrugged the notion off without much of a thought.

"What makes you so sure?"  Todd looked up at him then, the green pallor of his skin making him look sickly in the best of lighting

"Because we know where they're keeping him."

The three looked up.  Katherine Pryde stood before them, her palm-held computer in one hand and a frown on her lips.

"Where?"

"How?"

"Huh?"

The questions overlapped, eagerness apparent in all their voices.  Kitty held up a hand to silence them before keying a few new bits of information into her modified palm-pilot.  She spoke while she worked.

"The comm. devices you carry, you think they're just for show?"  Kitty raised a brow.  "Forge and I implanted tracking devices into teach of them."

"So you know where he's at?"  Todd asked again.

"Yes."  Kitty seemed resigned.  "His coordinates place him at the site of the Factory."

"Great!  When do we leave?" Tabitha replied flippantly.  

"Immediately."  Wolverine answered for her, calling back from the front of the cabin.  "Suit up."

*****************

_2009:  Nevada.  Sentinel Factory. One Hour Ago._

            Forge awoke to sharp, immediate pain in the back of his head and with the realization that something had gone horribly wrong.  He felt as if his skull had been shattered then haphazardly glued back together in some semblance of what it was supposed to be.  Through unfocused eyes, the peered at his surroundings blearily, unable to make out much with the blinding light that seemed to exist all around him.  His blurred vision could make out little of his surroundings.  Metal walls loomed high, glaring silver in the light.

            "Who are you?"  The voice was harsh, demanding.

"What?"  He answered before he could stop himself, befuddled.

            He discovered himself to be sitting up, propped in a high backed chair with his wrists secured behind his back.  Realizing this, Forge began to struggle.  Twisting in his seat panicked, he only caused the clamps around his wrists to dig into the flesh.  Wincing, he stopped, suddenly aware of the intense pain shooting up his right arm.  He hissed in pain.  It was probably broken.  That would make escaping more difficult, as now he was certain that his peril was great.  It wasn't the only injury he'd sustained either.  It was hard to breathe through his nose, a sure sign that something was wrong.  He was fairly certain it was broken as well, in addition to the split lip he now sported.

            It didn't take any amount of intelligence for Forge to come to the conclusion that he was screwed.  Seriously screwed.  He had to be in the factory, although he couldn't seem to remember anything beyond setting up the last bit of surveillance equipment.  How the hell had he gotten here?

            "Who are you?"  The voice repeated the question as Forge began to make out blurry shapes converged around him.  His vision was off so much that he wondered if he might have a concussion.  Or worse.

            "I don't- what do you want?"

            "Answers, my young friend."

            "Who are you?"  Forge was beginning to get pissed.  His head was pounding and his arm was in need of some serious medical attention.

            "I am asking the questions.  You'll be answering them."  He could make out three figures now.  Two were clad in drab, gray military uniforms unlike any Forge recognized while the third was in a black suit.  "You are a mutant, are you not?"

            "What's your deal man?"  He growled, wanting nothing more than for his eyes to focus.  Or to wake up and realize this was just a bad dream, although he knew this was not the case.  "Let me up."

            "I would advise you to answer the questions."

            ". . ."  Forge scowled.

            "Very well." 

The man in the suit sounded more amused then aggravated as Forge's refusal to reply as he made a broad gesture toward the man on his left.  The uniform stepped forward, brandishing an unfamiliar black object.  Forge's brow furrowed, identifying it as a weapon even as the man pressed it against his side, pushing the trigger.

The pain was immediate, flaring up his side.  It was some sort of a tazer, the rational part of his mind tried to tell him, but unlike anything he had ever seen.  It felt as if the molecules in his body were trying to tear themselves apart and reconfigure differently.  Like it had affected the very cells of his body in ways they had never meant to be touched.  It was like dying and birth.  Excruciating.  His spine bowed and he jerked about haplessly.  The pain in his arm was unbearable but it seemed only to accent the rest of the agony coursing through him.  He thrashed in his seat for an eternity as the pain continued, jaw locked so tightly he could not even scream.

Then it was gone, leaving him a limp, gasping figure still bound to a chair.  He could scarcely find the breath to exhale, his nerve endings tingling with the after-shock.

"I did warn you," the man replied pleasantly.  "Now, answer the question properly.  Are you a mutant?"

"Yes."  The word escaped his throat in a dry whisper.

"Excellent.  Our Sentinel picked you up near the Western boundary of the compound.  What were you doing there?"

Sentinel.  The world brought to mind images of giant robots, tromping about.  He didn't remember that.  Must be one of the side effects of the concussion?  He'd have to ask someone about that.  He wasn't sure.

"Nothing."

"Not a suitable answer."

"Go to hell."  It wasn't much of a taunt but it was better than nothing.  He would be fine, right?  The X-Men would be looking for him by now.  They'd discover his trail and come after him.  He just had to stay alive that long.

"Very well."  Another of those expansive gestures from the suited man.

Again, the tazer was pressed against his side.  And again, Forge writhed in his chair, unable to escape the pain.  This time, a scream escaped him despite his best efforts otherwise.  This time, the pain went on even longer.  Then it was gone, the uniform retreating from him.

"Once again, shall we?  We can conduct this interview the easy way, or the more difficult way.  I have all the time in the world."

*****

_Forty-Five Minutes Later._

            "Enough.  He's useless now."  The suit stepped back from the interrogation, pulling a tiny cell phone from his pocket and flipping it open.  

            The twin tazers wielded by the uniforms stopped their work in unison, leaving their victim barely lucid.  The agony faded to some degree, but the pain was still there, beneath the surface.  Darkness swam behind his eyes, and for a moment, Forge wanted to just give in to it.  The suit turned his back on them, punching a button for speed-dial.  He looked back briefly before the call connected.

            "Kill him."

            Forge didn't have the breath to protest, although panic seared his belly.  His time has just run out.  He slumped in the chair, fighting just to stay conscious.  His lungs burned with a dry fire.  Blood trickled from his bashed eyebrow down the side of his face.  It was hard to see through the red.  Two blurry shapes converged upon him, the familiar click of rifles disengaging the safety mechanism.  He stared ahead, unseeing.  Not in defeat, Forge was too proud for that, even as his stomach curled and he realized that death was upon him.  

            He forced himself to relax.  So much for being a hero, he told himself as his stomach rolled queasily in fear and panic.  Looks like he hadn't been a very good one.  Up until this point, he truly believed that he might make out of this.  He'd just begun his first prayer when the world went mad.

            The klaxon began blaring only moments before the first explosion rocked the building.  The alarm had been raised.  The two guards whirled around, searching for the source of the noise as the suited man nearly dropped his cell phone in surprise.  The walkie-talkies the guards carried blared to life, leaving the air filled with frightened shouts and barking orders in crescendo to the screeching sirens. 

            "What the hell?"  The suit snapped his phone shut, scowling at the two soldiers as it if were their fault.  

            The voices over the walkies were fuzzed, panicked, and didn't seem to make much sense to Forge, although he watched the scene with new interest.  And new hope.

            "Jackson!"  The suit snarled, causing one of the guards to snap to attention.  "Report!  Now!"

            "Sir, I don't know, sir," Jackson said haplessly.  "The line has gone crazy."

            "Get me some answers.  Now."  

            Forge felt somewhat vindicated that the Suit didn't seem so amused anymore.  Still, he waited with him all the same, having no other choice in the matter.  It took some time before words began to become apparent from the walkie-talkies.

            "Shit"*crackle*  "It's like a fu-"*crackl* "It's an animal!  It ripped him ap-"*crackle*

            Anything more for a moment was babble, then a high-pitched scream.

            "What's going on out there?"

            "I don't -" The second uniform paused, going pale.

            "Mutants sir!"  Jackson's shout brought Forge to his sense with a jerk.  "They've infiltrated the base."

            Mutants.  He was rescued.  The Calvary had arrived just in the nick of time.  Forge found himself weak with relief.  If only they'd find him before the Suit remembered his previous order.

            "The Sentinels!  Activate-"

            That was a thought never quite finished, as the back wall of the room exploded inward, taking some of the ceiling with it.  Forge closed his eyes against the chunks of debris the explosion blew outwards, missing the end of the unfortunate Suit, who never even had time to look up as several hundred pounds of construction materials crushed his bones into nothing.  The cell phone fell from his fingertips as he was struck, tumbling across the floor to rest at the toe of Forge's boot.  

The two uniforms managed to avoid most of the debris, but that alone didn't save them.  Even as Forge was choking on the blinding dust of the blast, he heard the savage snarl of a large beast of prey, followed by the wet sound of flesh being ripped.  Dying screams echoed in his ears, sounding more like a wounded animal than a man.  Had Logan done that?

"I've located one."  The voice was familiar enough that Forge let himself relax.  "Inform Creed that he's got five minutes to finish up back there."

"Scott?"  He called tentatively, braving the settling dust to open his eyes.  "That you, man?  For a minute there, I was about to be-"

Forge trailed off as he got a good look at his rescuers, his heart nearly stopping at the sight of them.  Something was very, very wrong.

*****

_Now._

"Oh Christ."  

Kitty gasped as the remains of the factory came into sight, leaning over the controls of the jet to openly gape at the carnage below.

"What the fu-"

"Shut up and sit down."

The Australian was silenced effectively by Wolverine, who was standing behind Kitty.  The Canadian shook his head, his expression unreadable.  He had very little patience for the pyromaniac, which was one of the reasons Cyclops avoided putting them on field-assignments together unless it couldn't be helped.  Of course, Wolverine was one of the few members of the team that Pyro actually listened to and that was only because Logan had threatened his lighter on several occasions.

"What's going on?"  Tabby called from the back

"Looks like we weren't the only ones who wanted a piece of 'em," Wolverine answered shortly.

That was an understatement.  The factory compound had been reduced to nothing more than a few smoldering remains.  Whoever had done that had been beaten them to it, and had done so very recently.

"I'm bringing the jet in for a landing."  Scott punched a few buttons at the controls, beginning their descent.

Kitty shot him a look.

"Do you think it's safe?"

"The scanners aren't picking up any signs of life out there," he replied tersely.  "But we can't rule out robotic interference.  I want you, Gambit, and Wolverine out there with me.  We're disembarking first.  The rest of you will remain inside until we've finished the initial sweep.  Quicksilver, I want you monitoring us from the cockpit.  If anything goes down, you're out of here.  Got that?"

"Perfectly," Pietro drawled from his sprawled position in one of the chairs.  His pose was languid but both Kitty and Scott knew him well enough to realize there was a great deal of tension beneath that well-posed sprawl.  

            "Kitty, get that tracking device back on-line.  I want him found."

            "It's on a time-delay," she reminded him, biting her lower lip.  "Give me five minutes, could be less, before I can see if there's been any change in his location." 

            As their leader landed the Blackbird expertly, none of the X-Men mentioned the obvious.  That Forge was dead.  That they'd been too late.  If that was the case, then what had destroyed the Sentinel facility?  That hadn't been Forge's doing.  

Unless he'd been packing more weaponry than any of them were aware of, Cyclops mused.  Highly unlikely.

They disembarked without incident, the four fanning out to survey the site.  Shadowcat immediately bounded off, something having caught her eye.  Cyclops watched Wolverine sniff the air, once again impressed at the man's uncanny resemblance to his namesake.  The older man stalked off, disappearing from sight and leaving Cyclops alone with the tall Arcadian.  The two of them didn't speak.  While Cyclops respected the man's abilities, there was something about Gambit that he just couldn't look past.  The man was too cocky, for starters.  It reminded him of Logan in some respects.  

He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the now.  There was nothing left alive in this place.  Cyclops could see that for himself.  The only thing to do now was to look for their comrade and try to make sense of what had happened here.  The place had been ripped apart, from the look of things.  No weapon he knew of could have created blasts like the ones that had decimated the sides of the buildings, or rather, what was left of them.  It wasn't much.  Further along, something was burning.  Something that smelled suspiciously like flesh, a stench not soon forgotten.  Scott stepped closer for a better look at one of the blast sites, his brow furrowing in contemplation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Wolverine roll one of the non-moving uniformed men onto his back.  He could see the man's wide, unblinking eyes at this distance.  Death was never a pretty sight, not like it was dramatized to be.   It was nasty business.  But it was one that Cyclops had seen far more than he would have liked in recent years.  It wasn't the corpse that caught his attention but his comrade.  Wolverine was practically snarling.  That was not a good sign.  Scott strode forward, stepping over another of the corpses.

"Cyke."  A call from behind had him turning.  Gambit jogged up to him, holding something in his partial gloved hand.  "T'ink mebbe y'wanna see dis."

Cyclops granted him nothing more than a puzzled look before seeing what the unruffled Cajun was holding.  Upon seeing what it was, however, he knew the reason for Wolverine's sudden ire.

It was a long, metal barb.  Gambit handled it with care, turning it so that the strange silver metal caught in the light.  About a foot in length, the tip of the quill was sharpened into a wicked point, leaving no one to wonder what it's use was.  Or to wonder exactly who it belonged to.  There was only one person, or rather, mutant who possessed such feathers.  They now knew who was responsible for the destruction of the factory and somehow, Scott wasn't surprised.

"The Horsemen."  Kitty breathed.  Scott hadn't been aware of her presence until she spoke, but there she stood, eyes wide.  She glanced over at Wolverine, who was stalking through the ruins with new fervor now.  Scott wasn't paying attention to either of them now; his attention was focused on the metal barb.

"Alex."

--

Chapter Four:  What exactly happened to Forge?  What are the X-Men going to do about it?  Why is Scott talking about his brother, Alex?  And of course, we see more of Rogue's past.  And how things are on the other side.

--

My thanks to **Rogue151**, **Star-of-Chaos**, **DemonRogue13**, **ShockGoddess**, **crim lady**, **Khay, aria28**, and **Alwaysright1** for your amazingly helpful reviews!  And a special thanks to **Ludi** – without whom I probably never would have stopped being lazy and started writing again!  As always, comments, questions, requests, and conspiracy theories make my day.  ^.^ 


	4. IV Anywhere

"_Have you ever died young?"_

_"No." The answer was automatic, accompanied by a slight sneer at the absurdity of it._

_"Liar."_

_Her mouth was dry. So she swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the dust caught within her throat. "What?"_

_Eyes the color of August sky turned to her, looking over a fair skinned shoulder._

_"You're a liar." Her companion spoke carefully, enunciating each worth with extraordinary precision as one would a small child._

_She jerked back as if she'd been slapped, her cheeks burning._

_"Come here." Her companion beckoned, crooking a finger in her direction._

_Stubbornly, she shook her head, refusing to budge._

_"I have something to show you."_

_"No," she replied adamantly._

_"Rogue." Her companion was insistent now. "Come here."_

_At the sound of the name – her name – she came forward. Shuffling closer to the companion with midday eyes. Eyes fixed firmly upon her. "I don't want to see."_

_They stood at the ledge now. Her gaze was drawn beyond the edge to the bleak landscape stretching below. Twilight amid the wastelands had been struck her as pretty before, especially knowing what had killed everything from it. She felt the gaze of her companion weighing on her, as oppressively so as the thick head drawing moisture from her pores._

_"You have to." No quarter given, not from this one. "There's still much to do."_

_And she did, because it was impossible not to. Staring out into the vastness where everything was dead, she felt dead too. Something was missing – no, lost – in the landscape. The kind of something that was vital._

_"So," the voice with the August eyes was behind her, murmuring into her ear. Cool hands caressed down her arms. Coaxing. Soothing. "Have you ever died young?"_

_Standing at the edge and so very tired of gazing down at the desolation, she closed her eyes. Cold settled into her limbs, deadening them. Her weight shifted and she pitched forward, spreading her arms to fall._

**  
The Present.**  
_2009. Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico._

Rogue came awake with the kind of instantaneousness that only comes from a life of waiting for things to come for you in the dark. In the dark of her room, sprawled out upon the big bed, she stilled her breathing, ears straining to catching anything. She was not alone. The knowledge filled her with wary predation instinct that suppressed all semblance of fear. She waited for a moment, listening to the silence.

Nothing.

She was not fooled. Her eyes flickered over the darkness, although her night vision was nothing to speak of. She waiting for her unknown visitor to make his presence known, willing herself to remain still. It would do her better to feign sleep than to alert the intruder of her awakening. But Rogue had never been the most patient of people. She threw the blankets back, hurtling from the bed with the smack of bare feet against cold stone. It was hard to be intimidating while wearing pajamas, but Rogue wasn't particularly concerned with that. She was rarely unintimidating. Most would tremble at the sight of her – hair in disarray, teeth bared. She was the Rogue. Her touch could be deadly, but her glare alone could freeze a man's blood. Even the bravest of Apocalypse's Hounds were wary of her temperamental streak. They skulked around her with resentful apprehension. With the more timid, it was outright avoidance. Many wouldn't even meet her gaze. It was something of pride to Rogue, to have achieved such status. It was also a stigma – to be forever separate from the others, even after she'd been given what was long denied to her.

The intruder had taken no pains to hide himself from view, even in the darkness of her bedchamber. The arrogance alone of such an act might have given her pause, but Rogue just wasn't in the mood. Not after another night of dreaming things she couldn't quite remember. There was someone in her room and they were not going to be welcomed warmly. With a furious press of her palm against the mechanism, Rogue flipped on the alien equivalent of a bedside lamp on, illuminating the windowless room in a soft blue glow.

"What the fu-" Her rant of righteous fury was cut short as the identity of the offending trespasser became clear. Her anger faded into suspicion warring with curiosity and, rising to the fore, dread. "Jamie?"

The boy stood beside the bedroom threshold, unblinking in the sudden light. His dark eyes were vacant of expression as his gaze fixed upon her. Not even twenty years old, the sullen boy looked both older and younger than one would expect. Rogue was one of the few who occasionally still referred to the boy by his first name. Fewer still even knew him by anything other than his designation.

Multiple. One of the many.

He held himself stiffly at her door, brown eyes vague and unfocused. She knew the look. The more duplicates of him running around mean greater concentration from the original – wherever he happened to be. That was information even Rogue was not privy too. Apocalypse kept his secrets to himself.

She no longer questioned his presence in her quarters. Nor his methods of getting in undetected. Multiple was the messenger. It was his job.

"You've been summoned to Interrogation." He spoke tonelessly, the words eerily detached from the synchronized movement of his lips. Without emotion or life. "There's been an incident."

4?  
End of History  
ChaosCat

**The Present**  
_2009. Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico._

Rogue had been to Interrogation on multiple occasions in the last year. All new arrivals, both friends and hostiles, were brought to the holding area first. Newly arriving mutants underwent extensive testing before being allowed to join their brethren within the walls. Those that passed swelled the growing ranks of Apocalypse's army. Those that failed were not spoken of. The same was said for the humans brought here. None of them had ever left. Since the 'Path Surge in 2007, there had been no new psionic mutants recruited. It was rumored that none of them had even survived in North America. Without them, prisoner interrogation often rested upon Rogue, although only in cases Apocalypse himself regulated. In actuality, it proved more useful than the usual tactics, as her abilities could determine truth from untruth with a mere touch. Even so, usually more standard techniques were practiced. That she was awoken from sleep meant something big was happening.

There was another Multiple awaiting her outside the cell, his arms clasped behind his back. Next to him stood the werewolf girl, Wolfsbane, her yellow eyes watching their progress down the stone passageway. Rogue met her wide-eyed gaze unflinchingly. She didn't like the half-feral Scottish mutant. There was something not right with her, as evident from the shaggy, auburn fur sprouting haphazardly from her lanky, hunched body. Rogue experienced a vague sense of wrongness when she was around that had little to do with her physical appearance. The feeling was mutual from the way the girl stared back, regarding Rogue was one might expect animals to look at prey. The analogous thought was apt enough to give Rogue a moment of amusement.

Rogue dismissed her without hesitation, turning her gaze upon the two Multiples at the door. One stepped over to the other and, as Rogue watched with heavily veiled interest, stepped into the other. It was like watching two bodies of water meeting and melding into a single, fluid unit. She knew how the process worked – their thoughts, feelings, and memories becoming one as they joined. Then, the newly birthed, single Multiple stood next to the door, eyes flickering back and forth methodically as his memories were sorted.

Impatient, Rogue prompted him. "Well?"

"Subject's alias is Forge, true identify unknown. Known mutant, although the nature of his abilities is further unclear. We discovered him during the Sentinel deactivation protocol. He was one of the x-gene active prisoners in the labs."

The latest mission had apparently been successful. Sentinel manufacturers were becoming more frequent of late. Funny, considering they were supposedly illegalized in 2003. Rogue was not always privy to the Horsemen's latest assignments; this was news to her.

"Odd." Multiple blinked. "He is thought to be in league with the renegades."

Rogue sneered at that. Mutants in league with humans, the would-be-slaughters of their species. She had little use for them, personally. Apocalypse had even less. Yet, what would one of their kind be doing as fodder for the Sentinel program? Had Trask run out of innocent mutants to persecute already?

"You're to retrieve that knowledge. As well as a catalog of his abilities," Multiple continued.

"We oughta just kill him." Wolfbane's thick brogue took a moment to decipher.

"Anyone ask for your opinion, Sugah?" Rogue's honeyed voice was deceptively sweet, her accent especially thick on the last word. She smirked as the Scottish mutant bristled at the faux endearment.

"Nae." Her voice, a deep-throated growl, promised violence. "But maybe ye should. It's a mite better than yours."

"You don't wanna play this game," Rogue warned, warming up to the prospect of violence.

"What's wrong? Squeamish? You turning into an X-Man now? Little late for that."

Rogue froze, lips curving into a humorless smile. Her voice was low when she spoke. "The X-Men are dead."

They stood closer now, the lycanthrope looming over Rogue's petite frame. They must have looked quite the sight for the onlooker. Rogue all in black with her pale skin in stark contrast. Much like the streak of white in her dark hair. Grey-green eyes dark with the promise of hostility. Wolfsbane with teeth bared and exposed skin further darkened, fur rippling beneath as it sprouted up. There was something fascinating in the way Wolfsbane transformed. Horrifying and beautiful at the same time.

"That's right." Wolfsbane let out a chuckle. "Killed one of them yourself, didn't you?"

The sound of Rogue's fist connecting squarely with Wolfsbane's face was a satisfactory one. The force of the blow nearly knocked the lycanthropic mutant right off her feet. It sent her tumbling backwards, arms flailing for just a moment. With a snarl, the wolfgirl righted herself and lunged at the pale skinned mutant, claws extended to bed embedded in her throat. Rogue caught the other girl's wrists before those claws could do any damage, using Wolfsbane's momentum against her to jerk her forward and drive her knee into the other girl's solar plexus. Wolfsbane wheezed, doubling over as Rogue released her. Smirking, she stepped back.

"I warned you," she began.

Unexpectedly, the other girl righted herself, throwing her weight towards Rogue in fury. The shorter woman took a step back, unprepared for the sudden viciousness of the attack.

"Enough."

The words themselves might not have been enough to halt the sudden battle. But the sudden barrier of gleaming adamantium between the two combatants was. There was a sharp, canine whine as Wolfsbane bounced off the obstacle with an audible 'whump' and landed on the floor in a crouch, more wolf than girl now. Ignoring the semi-stunned mutant, Rogue drew her gaze along the length of finely crafted adamantium feathers to the body that owned them.

Dressed entirely in black, the man standing there would have been an impressive picture without the massive metal wings sprouting from his back. Tall and slender, he had the look of a pale aristocrat, far displaced from his era. Framed by that extraordinary wingspan, he was a biblical vision. Cold eyes stared at her and Rogue found herself nearly flinching away from them. And that she hated. She would not be intimidated by him. Even if he were one of Them.

"Archangel," Wolfsbane spat, hackles rising.

The blonde turned his gaze upon her for just a moment. And she did shrink back, not quite cringing. But the action was close enough to give Rogue a moment of satisfaction. He slid his wings in, folding them so that the twin metal monstrosities rested at his back.

"You have someplace to be."

There was no room for suggestion in that voice. Her eyes narrowed at the slight but still Wolfsbane slunk back, saving the rage-filled gaze for Rogue as she disappeared down the hallway. She may not have liked it, but none of the Hounds defied an order from one of the Horsemen. They knew the penalty for such an act. Once she was gone, Rogue became aware of Multiple standing at her side.

He'd been watching, she realized. Watching and waiting to see who had been the victor. For there was no place for the weak in the Citadel. Archangel's interference had shifted the balance. Yet Multiple did not seem disappointed. Nor, she reflected, did he seem anything at all but indifferent towards the entire event. Not surprising. She turned to regard the sullen mutant with an unhappy look.

"What's he doin' here?" Rogue jerked her thumb back over at Archangel, her disapproval at his presence evident. Whatever feeling of unease she felt around Wolfsbane being near Archangel amplified about tenfold.

"Security."

Her brow furrowed at this. "Why?"

"Archangel was present when the subject was seized. Lord Apocalypse requested he be present during the interrogation." The Multiple paused for a moment, his eyes flickering. Then he continued. "It is time to begin."

"Sure," Rogue drawled, avoiding the feeling of unease growing within her at the presence of the winged mutant. "Let's get this over with."

With one last look in his direction, Rogue turned away from Archangel.

**--- **

**The Past**  
_2006: New York City._

He hadn't learned to make a silent entrance yet, she mused with a wry smile. The whoosh of air and swish of feathers announced him just as easily as footsteps. She waited, arms crossed, as he approached.

"Rogue," he greeted cordially, stepped up beside her on the rooftop.

She didn't look at him, but nodded her own greeting. "Angel."

They stood for a moment, watching the bustle of street life below. From the height, the world looked like a child's plaything, no more real than a man with wings or a girl who couldn't touch.

"You're back." His tone was conversational but she could catch the undercurrent of speculation.

She flashed him a look. "Not permanently."

"I see," he replied, gaze still upon her. "So you just happen to be in uniform, standing in a rooftop in the middle of the night?"

There was humor in his voice. Rogue shifted her weight, turning slightly to face him, and responded in kind. "I get restless."

"I noticed. Where's your partner?"

"Around." She shrugged, nonplussed by the insinuation. "Didn't think he needed a chaperone."

"He's not the one I'm concerned about."

"Worthington, I'm fine." She was beginning to feel exasperated, voice rising slightly in pitch.

"So you say."

She frowned deeply this time, flinging a look back at his costume, the red and white bodysuit hardly matching her own green attire. "You're not even one of the X-Men, what do you care?"

"You are a friend, Rogue." He was no longer unruffled, the ire in his voice now becoming more apparent. "A friend that disappeared months ago. So yes, I do care."

Her lips thinned into a line. His concern was unexpected, but too overbearing. She was tired of people worrying about her and tired of thinking about it at all. "I'm still fine."

"Of course." He didn't believe her. She wasn't surprised. None of them did. "Why are you here?"

"Taking care of some things." She was purposefully vague.

"Do any of the others know?"

"No," she answered, surprised at the sadness that accompanied that admission. "We'll be gone before they can."

**--- **

**The Present**  
_2009: Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico._

The prisoner might have been attractive under all that blood. With the extensive battering he'd taken, it was impossible to tell. One eyes was swollen shut and the other had died blood at the corner. The same blood was matted in his dark hair and had dried a reddish brown down the side of his face, obscuring most of it from scrutiny. The purpling bruises marring his cheek, jaw, and throat didn't help matters either.

Rogue wasn't sure of his ethnicity. His skin was darker than she'd expected, making her ponder the possibility of his heritage. Not that these things were important at any rate. She had a more pressing agenda.

Still, she'd almost felt sorry for him. His wounds hadn't been tended yet, leaving him looking more like a raw lump than a person. The Pale Riders were not known for their compassionate natures, unsurprisingly enough. Rogue found herself startled at the paltry amount of concern she felt over his condition, especially considering the possibility that he wasn't a "friendly." She wasn't known for being especially compassionate herself.

She shook the feeling off with vague annoyance, brushing past Multiple and Archangel. Both men had flanked her as she'd entered the room. She hadn't liked it, but had decided it better not to say anything. It wouldn't change anything.

The prisoner was looking at her intently with his one good eye, as unfocused as it appeared to be. They had to be conscious for the procedure. She could absorb those who weren't but it was more difficult to find the information she wanted. The soul-sucking vampire part was easy; it was shifting through the memories that had always been more difficult.

She approached slowly, watching the dazed wariness on the coppery skinned man's face. She knew the impression she made. Kohl-lined eyes and skin pale not for fashion but for the lack of days spend in the sun. She'd grown out of her childish "gothic-wannabe" wardrobe, although she still preferred the dark hues of her youth. Only know they were worn less conservatively.

"This will only hurt for a minute." She drawled, a bit of Mississippi in her voice.

She was reaching to touch the side of his face when the tentative sound of her name spoken, slurred and as unfocused as his vision, reached her ears.

"Rogue?"

But by then it was already too late.

"_Hey kid."_

_She didn't respond to the gruff inclination of that voice, nor did she bother to be annoyed at the moniker anymore. After all, she'd heard it a thousand times. Besides, anyone younger than him was deemed 'kid' or something equally as demeaning and everyone was younger than him. _

_In all truth, she was more annoyed that she'd been disturbed at all. She only needed a few more minutes to work the kinks out of this one anyway. She rarely had any time for tinkering the workshop anymore. Not since she'd signed on with these people._

"_Yeah?" She didn't bother glancing up._

Somewhere, she recognized this as a memory not her own.

"_It's time. Suit up."_

_This time, she did look up. The man was leaning against the doorframe to her workshop, smoke curling around his face. The face was grim, teeth gritted around the source of the smoke, a rather battered cigar. His brow was furrowed in a perpetual look of fierceness, most often a frown._

She remembered seeing him smile occasionally. And once, he'd even laughed. Not the sly, gruff noise he made sometimes, but a real belly laugh. She knew this man, the grizzled face beneath the wide-brimmed cowboy hat. Something sucked the air from her lungs, leaving her empty.

_Nodding absently, she went back to the device in her tanned (pale, they were pale) hands. She only needed a few more seconds before the transporter would work properly._

"_Now, kid!" he barked._

"_Alright." She dropped the offending contraption down on the workbench, frowning. "I'm coming, Wolverine."_

Wolverine.

The name struck her suddenly from another context. The voice of a dead man. The memory from – Forge, his name was Forge – shifted, a million others clamoring to take its place. The wash of images from a life she'd never lived was overwhelming in her moment of shock. The assault pushed her away from any coherence of thought beyond the face in the memory.

He was dead.

The man she'd known was dead. Like all the rest of them. Dead and buried. She'd seen it. The broadcast.

Too many memories fought for dominance, like children bringing presents to a favorite teacher. She couldn't keep up with them all. Whispers in her mind, catching up to her.

Not again.

When she came back to herself, she became aware of a high-pitch, keening scream. For a moment, she didn't recognize the sound of her own voice. There were other voices, but in her own confusion she didn't know whose. It was so hard to concentrate on anything but the noise in her head. Too much of that and nothing else got in.

The prisoner, Forge, was slumped forward in his bonds, her hand still at his temple. Horrified, she yanked her hand back, vision blurring. The momentum left her tumbling backwards, bouncing off something – someone – solid and sliding to the ground. Her head struck cold, hard rock with a dull thump. Pain exploded behind her eyeballs; for a moment everything went black.

**--- **

**The Past**  
_2005: Nevada; The Desert._

"Cut the shit."

"Excuse me?" Rogue pivoted, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Kid, you ain't-"

Her companion didn't get any further. Rogue's temper flared, her voice shrill and close to a snarl. "And I ain't a kid anymore, Logan. I case you hadn't noticed."

"Then quit acting like one," he returned, rummaging around in the meager duffel bag for a clean shirt. She doubted he'd find one.

She put her hands on her hips, facing him from across the room. "I'm not."

Logan snorted. His response was to fling the wet towel at her from across the cramped hotel suite. The offending article slapped her in the face, much to her shock. Her stocky companion let out a bark of laughter at the indignation of her features. "You are too. Shower's free."

"Jerk." It wasn't a very original retort, but Rogue wasn't feeling very witty at the moment. She threw the offending towel down on the floor, dismissing it. "I'm not being childish about this."

"Then why won't you just admit it?" Water glistened on his back, a testament to how little he bothered using the towel at all. In the sweltering heat, she didn't really blame him.

"Because there's nothing to admit!" She didn't like this conversation. Didn't want to have it. "I'm fine, whether you believe that or not."

She felt uncomfortable under his stare, knowing that he could see right through her flimsy lies. He'd been there the night before when the nightmares had come again. He'd held her while she shook and sobbed in the darkness, ashamed that she needed someone and yet not willing to let him go.

"Right." It was his only response before he changed the subject. "How long you planning to stick around here?"

Instead of pulling a shirt from his duffel, Logan withdrew a cigarette. He lit it, much to Rogue's annoyance, and collapsed into the single chair the room had to offer. Wearing only his blue jeans, Logan wasn't about to waste the effort on more clothing when it was only going to get hotter after the sun rose. Rogue didn't feel like layering much herself, although she didn't have much of a choice. Or quite as much body hair to conduct heat, she mused.

"Haven't thought about it," she replied, running a hand through her hair. The soft curls were gritted from the dirt in the air, she could tell that through the slim gloves she was wearing. She hadn't bothered blow-drying it straight since they'd been there. With the heat and humidity in the air, it just wasn't worth it. "Why? Ya getting' anxious?"

"Hotter than flamin' hell around here, Rogue," he grumbled. "I'm ready to sleep in a room with air conditioner for once."

"Didn't know you had such high standards, Wolvie." She smiled at that. Wolverine complaining about their living conditions. Rogue knew the truth of the matter, however. He had the wanderlust again. Always ready to get back on the open road.

"Shut it."

She was ready to leave too, she realized. It was part of both of them, this wanderlust that struck. Neither of them was good at settling down anymore. Logan had tried once. And Rogue, she didn't know if she could stop. It was too easy to run. Too easy to forget when you were doing that.

"Alright," she replied amiably, plopping down on one of the twin beds adorning the cramped room. "What do ya suggest?"

She didn't like the heat either. It was a different kind than the one she was used to. Mississippi heat was thicker, and wetter, somehow. The desert dried you out, made you feel like a withered husk, chafing in your clothes.

"Anywhere but here, darlin'," he grunted, puffing out thick white smoke. "Anywhere but here."

**--- **

**The Present**  
_2009: Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico._

She would have given anything to be anywhere else, right then. Her skull was throbbing fiercely, only part in due to her nasty little tumble. The rest, she knew, was the result of having lost control of herself during the interrogation. It was an occurrence that had not been repeated in sometime now. Uncertain about what had triggered it this time; Rogue frowned, willing herself to remember.

She stood, nursing a soon-to-be-swelling bruise on her forehead in addition to her injured pride. She would have rather just had to deal with the pain. The events of the interrogations itself were blurry. Once she'd initiated contact with the prisoner (Forge, his name was Forge), her recollection of events were hazy. There'd been memories. Some of them had been his. And others, they had been hers. She didn't want to think about those, or what they meant. She was too ashamed now after her performance earlier. She'd nearly fainted and had to be carried out by The Fallen – the winged Horsemen.

"You understand how important my work is, Rogue." Apocalypse stood with his back to her, gazing out from one of the few slitted windows the citadel had to offer. Invisible from the outside, Rogue herself wasn't even sure how it worked.

She stood rigidly, knwing that an answer was not required of her. After the fiasco downstairs, she'd been called – carried – up to him for a report. Unfortunately, due to her loss of control, she had little information to give him. It had taken her some time before she could even process the scattered bits of the prisoner's psyche still lodged in her brain. She'd been lost in other psyches before, but this one had been different. Apocalypse seemed disturbed about this train of events, not that he would share any information with her.

"You know that it is not possible without this." He was speaking again, only now he had turned to stare at her. His sallow features became increasingly decrepit by day, it seemed.

Rogue blanched, startled to see the ancient face before her. The lines, wrinkles, and spots creeping across his visage like some mysterious disease. Age. She remained where she was, hands clasped behind her back, as he came towards her.

"Such exceptional gifts," he muttered. Had it been anyone else, it might have been a compliment. But not him. "Yet you remember nothing. I have given you life. And you cannot perform your duty. All your training has been for naught."

Ashamed, she fought the urge to drop her gaze. She owed him; unlike she had ever owed anyone in her entire existence. He'd given her back something she'd lost. Still, he came closer.

"I need to know only one thing." Her took her chin in his hands, tilting her face up to him. A cold, hard pit settled in her stomach at his touch. Despite the grandfatherly appeal of his aged features, they were still alien to her. The nose just a little off. Grayed skin so wan and wrong. And his eyes, no humanity burned in those depths. Only a blank foreignness.

Her pulse quickened, not in desire but in dread. She'd reported all the could remember, paltry information about the prisoner. The man in question was still unconscious and expected to remain so for some time. Most of his memories had faded, leaving her with vague snatches and ghosts of foreign thought. Trying to grasp any of those muddled threads only made her head hurt, which was something she'd had quite enough of already tonight. Now, she only wanted to sleep.

"This Forge," the name rolled from his tongue like a disease. "This maker, can he fix the Chamber?"

Enlightenment came in that instant, leaving Rogue momentarily flabbergasted that she hadn't come to the conclusion herself. The answer came unbidden, formulas she could only half understand danced behind her eyes. But the words stuck in her throat as she considered the outcome of that decision. The path shifted as two worlds opened up before her. But what did they mean? Her moment of hesitation was no longer than the blink of an eye. No one kept the Lord Apocalypse waiting.

So she spoke, her decision made almost without her consent.

As Apocalypse pressed cold hands to her face, Rogue wished again to been anywhere but there. It would be sometimes before she remembered that The Maker had known her name; by then, it was already too late.

**NOTES:** That's right. I'm back. Bet you thought I was never going to finish this? Only took me three times of writing this chapter to completely retool the story from where it was originally going to go. Honestly, I think you'll like this version better. Know that I do.  
I'd like to thank everyone who's still reading this. And everyone to nagged, snapped, and generally just bugged me until I wrote it. Thanks. You're the reason this is being written, you know. Don't worry, more to come. Although I am looking for a beta reader, if anyone out there is interested?

As always, questions, comments, and hatemail are requested, loved, and very much appreciated! Oh, and theories, I always love those!


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